


too cold for you here and now

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Dream Pack, Feelings, Grinding, Hickeys, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and k loves the pack, and the pack kind of fetishize it, but it's ok because summer is coming, k has seasonal affective disorder, like me, sexy reading of the bacchae, the pack loves K
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The air was sweet with the startled scent of earliest Autumn, when the fallen leaves were not yet rotted and summer lingered in forgotten corners, yielding gently with closed, terrified eyes to the will of the chill, the quiet death pervading the trees, the grass, the flowers.(AKA, K has SAD and the Pack take care of him, with sexy results.)





	too cold for you here and now

**Author's Note:**

> Am I suffering because of the season change? Yes. 
> 
> Do I have a Dream Pack to take care of me like this? Only in my dreams.

The air was sweet with the startled scent of earliest Autumn, when the fallen leaves were not yet rotted and summer lingered in forgotten corners, yielding gently with closed, terrified eyes to the will of the chill, the quiet death pervading the trees, the grass, the flowers. 

It tempered the most belligerent aspects of K’s mania, like the end of summertime always did. He rode the high of the Fourth of July straight into October without looking back, and then fizzled into a creature more likely to stay inside than go out looking for what little trouble Henrietta, Virginia could provide. 

It suited the pack just fine; they were all of them happiest when together, the most satisfied when there were no outsiders to interfere with the machinations of belonging to Joseph Kavinsky. 

K was softer, the smudges beneath his eyes gone bruiselike no matter how much sleep he got, always tucked into a sweater when he wasn’t wearing his Aglionby uniform like it had personally offended him, tie loose and buttons undone, hanging off of the wide, bony planes of his shoulders. The hollows of his hipbones went from saucers to mixing bowls no matter how much food he ate. He wasted away like the landscape, a dying thing like the trees, become skeletal and shivering and black-eyed in the wintertime. 

It was intoxicating. 

Proko was his shadow always, but clung even closer in the season change, affectionate as a declawed cat, all butterfly kisses and sharp-toothed bites against K’s throat, which bore the marks of his touch like so many signatures,  _ Prokopenko was here and here and here and here,  _ bold for anyone who cared to look to see. 

Skov became a glorified heated blanket, draping himself all over K on couches, in beds, the front seat of the Evo— anywhere.  _ Everywhere.  _ He had all the shame of a Roman whore, and was a hot-skinned brat besides, all for K. All for him, everything, nothing left that he would not willingly give. Not anymore. He’d had scruples once— had resistance once. That had all been worn away, and now here he was, a monster and a god under the tutelage of the most monstrous, most godly being any of them had ever seen. It was like being in church and hearing the voice of Jesus Christ, when Joseph Kavinsky spoke to you and only you. Nobody could blame Skov for his addiction. Not if they knew. Not if they  _ understood.  _ He read books in philosophy class about the tradition of the dying god and saw all of it in K’s sunken cheeks, his trembling nightmares, his cold, faraway voice. Dionysus, a god always living and always dying. He read the Bacchae in bed for lit class, tucked up to K’s side and getting hard reading about Pentheus being torn to bloody, pulpy shreds. K only hummed at it, eyes closed and eyelids paper-thin, a delicate lavender shot through with a lattice or indigo veins, deceptively vulnerable. 

Jiang, as in all things, greeted the yearly change in K stoically, hovering on the edges, the fringes, always their scout, their lookout. He had the best eyes of anyone, and he watched for danger inside and out of their circle. He knew intimately all the expressions of K’s face, his body— Jiang could tell when melancholia bordered on hysterical despair, when he couldn’t sleep for dreams full of gut wrenching  _ want,  _ when his hands shook too hard for him to work the grinder, to light up. And that was when Jiang pressed in, smooth graceful hands and murmured words. He always knew what K needed, with no pretense and no  _ asking.  _ The only one K would allow that kind of unspoken freedom, liberty. The only one who could be trusted with it. 

And of course there was Swan, whose take on winter bunkering and bolstering came in the form of the practical, changing K’s socks with insistent hands, pressing food onto him when it all tasted like ash and disappointment, holding open his thighs and carving out a place for pleasure there, pressing him open with enough roughness to hurt just a little, just a bit. Just  _ enough, _ to drag him kicking and screaming from the vast wasteland of his own head. Not a punishment. Swan didn’t lord his superiority over K in those moments like so many motherfuckers had done before; his eyes were full of warmth, his teeth white as snow and his hands large enough to very nearly encircle K’s thighs. Swan, who did not make mention of the days when K felt so weak that he could barely peel himself from bed, the times he’d had to hold K upright just so he could shower, wash off the cold sweats and nightmares. 

There was nothing else. That was all. Just K, and the ways they could be useful to him, the ways they could consume him, all of them addicted hopelessly. All of them on fire inside, like they’d swallowed a lit match years ago and been swigging gasoline by the gallon ever since. 

Summer would come again. Summer, and the bite of venom on K’s tongue, the perfect way he scraped up lines of coke in the muggy heat of the night, the way he looked with his shoulders sunburned and a fifth dangling from his fingertips, lips pulled into a fierce sneer. He was unstoppable in the summer. He was a legend, larger than life. 

Even legends needed rest, though, and so they welcomed the snow, the falling leaves. The chance to keep their worship private, their temple close and unbreachable by outsiders. Outsiders like the townies only there for the excitement, the Raven Boys looking for drugs, Ronan fucking Lynch looking for blood. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
